


Ouad

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 17:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14598573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Visions are seldom all they seem, but Ignis knows Noctis.





	Ouad

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “During WoR Ignis has very vivid dreams of being with Noctis. +Can be just normal dreams or Noctis somehow dream walking from the crystal. +They were never together before” prompt on [the FFXV kinkmeme](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4747.html?thread=9954187#cmt9954187).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The room is a familiar one, one he’s been in many times, but not for far too long. At first, he only drinks it in—lets his gaze lilt over every expensive line and curve—and then the realization tumbles in: _he can see again._

Ignis’ breath hitches. He’s dreaming. Somehow, strangely, he _knows_ he is—it’s the only explanation. But when he drifts towards the mahogany desk against the wall and lets his fingers trace the surface, he can _feel it_. Ignis tentatively trails across the polished countertop, makes it to the wardrobe, the gilded mirror beside the fireplace—everything feels solid, strong, _real_. It can’t be. The room is immaculate, the way it was before the city fell.

Ignis cleaned it too many times to count. Noctis’ bedroom never looked this spotless but for the times that Ignis dealt with it. Standing on the rich carpet, Ignis nearly chokes. He wishes the dream came to him messy, littered with clothes and books and old toys: any sign of life, of _Noctis_. That’s all Ignis wants anymore. 

The back of his neck prickles like he’s being watched. Ignis turns, and sure enough, a figure’s perched on the very edge of the bed. 

For a moment, Ignis is dizzy. His vision blurs, fogging out into the hazy darkness that it’s become, only to flicker back again like fire, highlight Noctis in bright, vivid tones. 

He isn’t the young man that Ignis lost, no longer twenty, now perhaps twenty-five—five long years that Ignis has been without him. If everything had gone well and right, Noctis probably would’ve stayed light and carefree right through all his twenties, but his journey’s been bitter, and he looks hardened for all his years locked in the Crystal. Ignis tries to remind himself that Noctis is still there. This is only a dream. But it doesn’t feel like it. The details are too precise. Ignis can hear his heart beating fast, pulse pounding in his ears. Ignis breathes, “ _I’m dreaming._ ”

“You are,” Noctis agrees, in that same deep voice that Ignis has long remembered. As the image of Noctis has faded, lost in the growing familiarity of Ignis’ blindness, that voice has stuck with him. It hurts to hear it now. Noctis tells him, “But I’m as real as I can be.”

Ignis shakes his head. He can’t tell if his heart’s swelling with relief, with pleasure, or just about to burst from cruelty. He watches Noctis’ mouth as it forms the words: “It’s taken me a long time to do even this with the Crystal... but this is all I can manage. It’s the only way to reach you.”

Ignis knows it can’t be true. He wants to believe it. His feet are moving. He finds himself stumbling forward, then dropping to his knees at Noctis’ feet, folding at the bottom of the bed. His shaking hands reach out, and Noctis feels _so real_.

He can feel the warmth, the softness, the subtle texture of the dark pants that Noctis wore when the Crystal swallowed him whole. Ignis’ palms skirt along Noctis’ thighs, touch Noctis’ hips, wrap around him—Ignis encircles Noctis’ waist and slumps forward, enveloping Noctis in a thick embrace. He buries his face in Noctis’ chest, breathes in—Noctis even _smells_ the same. Ignis could never forget that scent. Noctis’ fingers thread through Ignis’ hair. Noctis pets him and murmurs, “ _Shh._ ”

Ignis is so close to breaking down. He doesn’t—he holds back his tears, because his king has commanded him to hush, and he obeys. But the water stings at the corner of his eyes. The feeling of Noctis’ hands in his hair is enough to make him tremble. Noctis whispers, “I miss you, Iggy.”

Ignis breaks, obedience be damned. The tears fall. He can’t even express how much he feels the same, because there are no words that could describe how empty his life has been without Noctis. He’s held on only for this hope—that somehow, someday, Noctis would emerge again. He’s tried to do what Noctis would have wanted in the meantime. He can’t ask now if he’s done alright. He only sheds quiet tears against Noctis’ shirt while Noctis soothes him. 

For a long while, that’s all there is—Ignis drowning in Noctis’ hold. But eventually Noctis’ hands slip down to cup his face. Noctis tilts him up, and Ignis’ bleary eyes catch with Noctis’ piercing gaze. There are flecks of red and purple in his blue eyes, like when the Crystal’s magic overtakes him. Noctis’ thumbs brush away the tears, and then he leans in to kiss them, tenderly mopping each one up. The kisses trail lower as they go, cleaning up the remains. Then Noctis’ lips brush over Ignis’, and his trembling drastically increases.

As Noctis slowly withdraws, Ignis murmurs, awed, “Now I know I’m dreaming.”

Noctis offers a broken, sad smile. He holds Ignis face and answers, “You should’ve told me how you felt.” Ignis’ chest clenches. He always feared he was too obvious, despite his efforts to contain it, to control it, to lock away his foolish fantasies and simply serve his king. “It shouldn’t have come out this way, by me probing into your mind. I’m sorry for that.”

Ignis shakes his head. It should embarrass him, but he only offers, “No, every part of me belongs to you and always has. Body, soul, and mind.” Noctis gives a short, shallow laugh, like he used to do when teasing Ignis for being ‘too serious.’ 

He leans down to offer Ignis another kiss, chaste but lingering. Ignis is too paralyzed in all his emotions to respond. Noctis breathes across his lips, “I’ve missed you _so much._ I... want to be with you like this—to take as much with me as I can.”

Ignis is speechless. Noctis’ thumb tugs at his chin, and Ignis subserviently parts his lips. When Noctis next kisses him, it reaches far deeper—Noctis’ tongue slips into his mouth, and Ignis closes around it, allowing himself to moan at just how _good_ it feels—not just physically, but the sharing that intimacy with Noctis.

The kiss lasts, and when Ignis tries to part them, Noctis won’t allow it. He chases Ignis’ mouth and fills Ignis up, then sucks Ignis’ tongue into his own, hands sliding back into Ignis’ hair again and holding him in place. Noctis doesn’t even part them to pull Ignis up, just tugs at him and shuffles back, while Ignis obediently climbs forward. He lets Noctis draw him onto the bed. There are no hazy transitions, no sudden shifts, like there always are in dreams. It’s fluid, but real-time. Ignis lives every second. He feels the insistent press of Noctis’ hands between the folds of his jacket, and he has to wait through Noctis tackling every button. 

He lets Noctis brush his jacket off his shoulders. Noctis nips at his bottom lip, tugs at it, and looks up into his eyes, gaze saying so much without words. Noctis’ eyes were always beautiful. Ignis wonders if his own are young again, or if Noctis still sees the burnt, scarred creature that Ignis has become. He knows that Noctis knew him, if only for a short time, with his ravaged body. Noctis loved him anyway. But it was never _like this._

Maybe it could’ve been, if there’d been time. Or if Ignis had just spoken of his own wants for once in his life. It seems fast, all at once, but after five years apart and in the bizarre setting of Noctis’ childhood bedroom, it also feels _right_. And Ignis wants more of Noctis too much to question his blessings. 

Noctis seems to read that compliance in his eyes. Noctis works at the buttons of Ignis shirt, popping them open one by one to expose the brutalized expanse of Ignis’ chest. As Noctis’ fingers lovingly caress his skin, both the smooth and broken parts, Ignis tentatively touches Noctis’ body. His hands slide over the firm, broad lines of Noctis’ chest, and Noctis warns him, “I don’t know how long I can do this. We might not have much time.”

Ignis swallows down his hesitation, and he dares to pull at Noctis’ shirt. Noctis straightens and helps, ripping it right over his head, ruffling his messy hair. He pushes Ignis’ away. He unclasps Ignis’ belt, gives Ignis another kiss, and mutters, “I could control this, I think.” Ignis shivers, hands resting on Noctis’ thighs. “But I want it to feel real.” Ignis nods, mouth dry. Noctis pulls his belt free.

Noctis works at his own fly and tells Ignis, “Lie down for me.”

It’s difficult to leave Noctis’ embrace, but Ignis does as he’s told. He falls back to the plush blankets, head landing on the pillow— _Noctis’_ pillow. For a moment, Noctis just looks down at him, grinning, lazy like he used to be, but feral too, hungry, predatory. Ignis has to clench his fists into the blankets to hold back from lunging at Noctis. Maybe it’s better that they never did this in life. It makes it so hard for Ignis to think. Noctis fills his senses.

Noctis tugs his pants down, his underwear with it, and Ignis shuts his eyes and forgets any insecurities. There’s no time for that. Noctis strips him completely, and then Ignis’ eyes flutter back open to watch Noctis unbuckle his own pants. 

Watching Noctis strip is exhilarating, intoxicating—it makes Ignis shamefully hard, and there’s nothing left to hide that—his cock twitches and arches off his stomach, calling for his king. Noctis eyes it with a casual sort of smirk. He’s ethereal and beautiful, but still _Noctis_ , still the young, virile man that Ignis remembers. Noctis cock is half hard when he reveals it, long and thick and just as attractive as the rest of him. Ignis tries to memorize the sight. Then he wonders if he’ll still be able to grasp it when he wakes, or if the world will be dark again, all these images left to slowly crumble away.

“Ignis,” Noctis hisses, “Don’t.”

Ignis nods. He understands. He brings his mind back to where they are, the two of them, the way it could’ve been, and maybe could be again. Even if Ignis has to wait another five years, and even if his vision never returns, it would all be worth it. Noctis smiles with approval and leans down over him again, rewarding him with a tender kiss.

The two of them lie down across the bed, and with a flick of Noctis’ arm, they’re beneath the blankets. It isn’t the suddenness of sleep but the wildness of Noctis’ magic. His fingers splay along Ignis’ cheek, and he pulls Ignis to him. On their sides, they come together. Ignis presses himself fully against Noctis’ body and feels _everything_. Noctis throbs against his thigh, hot and hard. Ignis presses one leg between Noctis’. He ruts into Noctis’ stomach. It feels _so good_. He clings at Noctis with everything he has.

“I don’t want this to be the last time,” Noctis mutters between kisses, and Ignis agrees but stifles Noctis with another kiss anyway—he takes them now as frantic and fast as he can, branding them in and hoping he still feels it in the morning. He wants to wake with kiss-swollen lips and the taste of Noctis on his tongue. Noctis indulges him but purrs around his eager attentions, “I want to be in you this time... next time, you’ll take me... we’ll try everything, Specs. Do everything we couldn’t in life.”

Even the stupid nickname makes Ignis’ eyes prickle. He belatedly realizes that his glasses are missing, and he catches a glimpse of them over Noctis’ shoulder, sitting on the nightstand—the thin, black-rimmed pair that Noctis bought him on his eighteenth birthday. They sit in Noctis’ bedroom like they were meant to be there, like Ignis fell asleep in this grand bed and only left it for a moment, before being drawn back into his prince’s arms. His king’s embrace. Noctis asks, husky and as desperate as Ignis feels, “Can I take you, Iggy?”

Ignis nods. He doesn’t care how they do it. He just wants more of Noctis. Noctis kisses him fiercely, bites at his lip and sucks at his tongue, then pushes him onto his back. Noctis climbs on top of him, right between his legs. When Noctis bears down over Ignis, his eyes glow bright red, and Ignis gasps as his body responds—his channel flexes and dribbles, wet around the edges, like Noctis has filled him with several lube-slicked fingers. Then Noctis’ mouth is on his again before he can ask any questions. Noctis’ hands reach between them, and Ignis feels something warm and spongy against his entrance. 

He hasn’t had anyone since before Insomnia fell. He hasn’t had so much as a kiss since Altissia. There was a time when he saved himself for this possibility—for the mere chance that Noctis might grow to love him. But then the bitterness of reality set in, and he forced himself to try and move on, to experience life, and to take whatever little cold comfort physicality could give him. 

He thinks he misspent his youth. Perhaps he should have continued waiting. Noctis seems to understand and kisses those thoughts away. Noctis holds onto him, pausing with their foreheads held together. Ignis can barely breathe.

Then Noctis slips inside. His cock pushes into Ignis’ body without resistance, and from the first breach, Ignis can feel it _all_. Every ripple, every vein. Every centimeter of Noctis’ glorious length. Noctis pushes into him and grinds their bodies together, crushing Ignis down in heat and want. 

It’s all Ignis can do to hold on. He clings to Noctis’ shoulders, wraps his legs around Noctis’ waist, and opens himself as much as he can. His channel flexes and clenches around Noctis’ cock. Noctis rocks inside him. Noctis grinds in deep. Noctis breathes, “ _Ignis_ ,” and starts to make love to him.

That’s exactly what it is. Slow and deep, Noctis takes him. Each thrust is measured and dizzying, wildly satisfying, bottoming out and touching Ignis in all the right places. Dream-Noctis can do no wrong. Noctis reminds him, now panting, “Not a dream.” He kisses Ignis’ cheek preemptively, but Ignis doesn’t have any tears left. He’s too weak to manage even that. He’s already limp and boneless, emotionally spent as Noctis thrusts into him. When Noctis’ fingers wrap around his cock, he groans, because he doesn’t think he can take that too. 

He has to. Noctis strokes him, impossibly feeding him more pleasure. Ignis is so overwhelmed. Noctis does what he’s always wanted, tells him just what he wants to hear. Noctis whispers, “I’ve always loved you, Ignis. _Always_.”

Ignis lets out a dry sob. He closes his eyes, and he bursts, splattering Noctis’ hand as a mind-numbing orgasm takes him over. It destroys him right to his fingertips, shorting out his nerves and breath and vision, washing him in a weightless, thoughtless infinity. When it seeps out, it leaves his ears ringing and his body spent. He realizes distantly that Noctis is praising him. Noctis murmurs, “So beautiful, so perfect... you don’t know how good you feel...” Ignis tries to clench around Noctis’ cock, tries to offer more friction, more heat. Noctis moans and nuzzles at his face. “... _Ignis_...”

Noctis’ orgasm is a different affair. Ignis can _feel it_ , the rush of loose seed bubbling inside himself, filling him up, but as it comes, his vision blurs. Black prickles at the edges. It crowds in like wisps of clouds, eating everything up. Ignis is too exhausted to be distraught. He watches Noctis as long as he can. Noctis wraps around him, collapsing down to hold him tightly. When it’s all gone, when there’s only _black_ , Ignis longs for another look, for one last image of Noctis. But it’s enough to feel Noctis. Noctis whispers his name again, but that, too, is fading.

He knows he’s losing his grasp of the dream. Ignis wants to claw it, wants to clutch and savour every last thread, but he’s falling too fast. He’s losing everything. Even the faint remnants of Noctis’ touch drift away and disappear. Ignis can’t bear it.

His eyes open to nothing. But he knows that they’re open. Knows that he’s awake. The smell and sounds of the campfire crackle beyond his fabric walls. His bedroll is a dead weight all around him. 

He can feel the crusted tears on his cheeks. 

He remembers _everything._


End file.
